


Seven Days

by dracoqueen22



Series: Flights of Fancy [8]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM themes, Harpyformers, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-07-25 02:24:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16188125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: Perfectly behaved pets are boring pets, but Jazz might have bitten off more than he can chew when he disobeys Bluestreak.





	1. Day Zero

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: This is really just unrepentant porn. Don't look for any deeper meaning beyond that. ;) Also, it takes place in the distant, distant future of the Flights of Fancy series so it will contain some spoilers for future relationships.

It was one simple command.   
  
‘Don’t come.’   
  
It was too easy. Jazz swallowed a laugh at it. Show some restraint? Hold back? Prove he could obey? Those were easy. He’d had far more difficult commands from far more difficult masters.   
  
Jazz was the perfect pet. He always had been. It was part of his charm.   
  
Well, he was perfect until he didn’t want to be. Perfectly behaved pets were boring, after all, and there was something in Bluestreak’s blue eyes that made Jazz want to be ornery. It made him want to push his master’s boundaries, his limits. He wanted to see how deep those still waters ran.   
  
Bluestreak told him, “Tonight, your task is to wait.”  
  
Wait. Obey. Hold back until Bluestreak allowed him release, and only then, could he let go.   
  
Jazz solemnly agreed, but his fingers were crossed behind his back, and mischief crowded around his core.   
  
It was time to test the limits.   
  
Self-control was something to be utilized or ignored when it suited his whims. So tonight, Jazz tossed the very idea of it off the balcony and surrendered to the pleasure. It swept him up and tossed him around in a sea of heat, and he held tight to Bluestreak as he shuddered through his release, spattering warm and wet against Bluestreak’s belly, and tightening around Bluestreak’s clava.   
  
He floated in the pleasure, little ripples of it dancing up and down his spine, and when he peeled his eyes open, Bluestreak was looking down at him with narrowed eyes. He’d gone still, hands tight on Jazz’s hips, clava buried deep, still throbbing and firm.   
  
“I hope you enjoyed that,” he said, his tone thick with warning and command, sending another wave of heat down Jazz’s spine. “Because it’s the last orgasm you’re going to get this week.”   
  
Jazz licked his lips and arched his back, tightening his thighs around his master’s waist. “I apologize,” he purred, not sorry at all, planting a look of contrition on his face. “I’ll do better next time, sir. I promise.”   
  
He couldn’t tell if Bluestreak was swayed or not. Sometimes, he seemed so immune to Jazz’s charms.   
  
It baffled Jazz, the first time he realized that as much as Bluestreak wanted him, that didn’t mean he could be manipulated. Somehow, he saw through all of Jazz’s games, right to the core of him.   
  
Blue eyes didn’t soften, but they flared with heat.   
  
“I know you will,” Bluestreak said and he nearly bent Jazz in half as he pressed their foreheads together, pinning Jazz between himself and the nest.   
  
Jazz stifled a whimper, real and not feigned, because the change in position added a new pressure to his groin and the smell of his own spill was thick and sweet in the air. He could feel Bluestreak within him, so close to his own release, and while disobedience was fun, he could never abide letting his master pull away without being satisfied.   
  
“You are a terror,” Bluestreak murmured in his ear. Jazz shivered at the rumble of it. Bluestreak had such a pleasant voice. “Just when I think I’ve tamed you…”   
  
Jazz laughed aloud. “Tame ain’t in my nature, love.” He carded his fingers through the feathers at Bluestreak’s nape and rolled his hips, working a rhythm he knew his master loved best.   
  
He knew he succeeded because Bluestreak’s eyes drifted to half-mast, his thrusts increased in urgency, and his teeth skated over Jazz’s ear. He breathed hotly, talons pricking Jazz’s skin, and moments later, Jazz felt the hot splash of Bluestreak’s release within him. His master shuddered while curled over him, hips working in tiny jerks with each pulse of his clava, until he rested his forehead against Jazz’s and just breathed.   
  
His fingers clenched and unclenched, until his talons withdrew from their sharp pinprick at Jazz’s hips. His palms swept down, following the grain of Jazz’s feathers, and his head tilted into a nuzzle.   
  
Jazz purred and returned it. Post-orgasm Bluestreak was a cuddly Bluestreak and one of Jazz’s favorite Bluestreaks. He had a way of making Jazz feel both cherished and owned, and just the reminder of the collar he sometimes wore made him shiver all the way to his core.   
  
“I haven’t forgotten your misbehavior,” Bluestreak said as he pressed a kiss to the curve of Jazz’s jaw, his lips dragging toward Jazz’s mouth and hovering over it.   
  
Jazz leaned up and stole his lips for a sweet kiss, grinning as Bluestreak squeezed his hips before finally sliding free. He let Jazz sink into the nest, easing the strained curve of his spine.   
  
“A kiss isn’t going to make me forgive you either,” Bluestreak added as he rose up on his knees and looked down the expanse of greyish-blue feathers on his torso, now liberally spattered with Jazz’s release. “You made a mess, flitterling.”   
  
“I’m sorry,” Jazz said, his eyelids coyly lowered in a feigned deference he knew Bluestreak would recognize.   
  
Amusement tugged at the corner of his master’s lips. “You don’t look very sorry,” he said with a chuckle. “Cleaning me up would go a long way toward earning my forgiveness.”   
  
That was a request Jazz was all too eager to fill. He rose in the nest, catching his balance easily in the sea of pillows, and bent over to lick Bluestreak’s belly, cleaning it of his release. Bluestreak carded through the feathers on his head, a sound of approval rising in his chest like a purr.   
  
“I think punishment is in order for your indiscretion,” Bluestreak said, his tone half-thoughtful, half-distracted. “But I’m going to think about it and tell you what it is in the morning.”   
  
Jazz said nothing. His mouth was too busy. A small thrill ran up his spine, however.   
  
It was part of the game. The anticipation, the contemplation, the theories of what creative means Bluestreak would devise this time. Had the ability to look sweet and innocent, his lover did. Few realized he was as devious as his carrier beneath the gentle smile and friendly babble.   
  
Sometimes, it was like he was two entirely different people.   
  
Jazz loved it. Loved this. Loved what they had together.   
  
Loved Bluestreak, truth be told. He needed to say it more often.   
  
He finished his task, and Bluestreak left the nest, only to come back with a damp cloth to clean up the remnants on from them both. Said cloth was unceremoniously tossed in the direction of the laundry basket before he curled around Jazz, tucking Jazz into the cradle of his body, nose pressed to the crown of Jazz’s head.   
  
Excitement and intrigue was almost enough to keep Jazz awake. But listening to Bluestreak’s steady breathing lulled him right to sleep.   
  
Morning would bring something new and challenging.   
  
Jazz couldn’t wait.   
  


~


	2. Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jazz learns the nature of his punishment.

Jazz woke with a low, deep groan, a sensation of heat and wet between his thighs, a tongue working him over with long, lingering licks. He peeled his eyes open to greet a hazy morning, hips rocking up toward Bluestreak’s mouth, his clava slowly extending while slick gathered between his thighs.   
  
“Morning,” Bluestreak murmured, exhaling hot and wet over Jazz’s antrum, his tongue making quick flicks over Jazz’s clitnub.   
  
“That’s not punishment,” Jazz said, because he was an idiot, and his thoughts were muddled by yes-more-please rather than the more intelligent reaction of not-reminding his master of his upcoming punishment.   
  
Bluestreak laughed against him, the vibrations sending a wave of pleasure through Jazz’s groin. “Oh, yes it is.”   
  
His hands gripped the back of Jazz’s thighs, pushing them up and out, baring Jazz to the heat of his mouth. He licked, long and deep, as though desperate to consume every drop of Jazz’s slick.   
  
Jazz moaned, head tipping back, his groin a blaze of throbbing fire, and release boiling in his veins. He trembled, feathers quivering, hips rocking against Bluestreak’s mouth. The slight scrape of teeth made him jerk.   
  
He was already close. So close. This was the best way to wake up.   
  
He moaned again, one hand fisting the blankets, the other reaching for Bluestreak’s head, wanting to pet that crest of gorgeous feathers. He warbled an encouraging sound, his clava rigid and seeping. Jazz hoped he could encourage Bluestreak’s mouth toward it.   
  
“Are you close?” Bluestreak murmured with a lingering squeeze of his lips around Jazz’s nub.   
  
“Yes,” Jazz moaned.   
  
“Good.” Bluestreak smacked a kiss over Jazz’s antrum and suddenly sat up, licking his lips clean. “That’s enough of that, I think.”   
  
Jazz blinked. His hips moved in little circles, but Bluestreak was backing away from him, rising out of the nest like he hadn’t left Jazz a limp pile of desperate feathers, whose lower half throbbed for release.   
  
“What?”   
  
Bluestreak quirked an eyebrow. “Punishment,” he said, almost singsong. He waggled a finger at Jazz, a light in his eyes that was all too sinister. “You disobeyed, flitterling. You came without permission. So you’re not allowed to come for the whole week. Seven days. Understand?”   
  
Jazz’s thoughts stuttered to a halt. It felt like they moved through molasses, and he tried to sit up, but his lower half was weak and still throbbing toward release.   
  
“What?”   
  
Bluestreak’s lips pulled into a slow, devious smile. He crouched by the edge of the nest, out of reach.   
  
“You heard me.” He tilted his head, and there was no mercy in the glint of his eyes, though the curve of his lips still spoke of affection. “You could have held back. You chose not to. We’ve been together long enough I can read it in you now. You were testing me, weren’t you? Seeing what I’d do if you chose to ignore my order.”   
  
Realization trickled through the slow sap of incomprehension.   
  
Jazz managed to sit up, though his groin ached, and the urge to grab a pillow made his fingers twitch. “Blue, you can’t be serious.”   
  
“Oh, but I am.” He swiped the pad of his thumb over the corner of his mouth, wiping away a smear of Jazz’s slick. “It’s just a week, Jazz. Weren’t you telling me a few days ago that you’re a big, bad adult, and I’m the barely out of the creche youngling who has no idea what he’s gotten himself into?”   
  
That was made in jest!   
  
“I know you were teasing,” Bluestreak said as if he’d read Jazz’s mind, and maybe he could, because damn if he didn’t seem to always know what Jazz was thinking. “And this punishment isn’t because of that. It’s because you can’t get away with disobeying me. What kind of master would I be if I allowed that?” He tilted his head, eyes sparkling, looking so damn innocent.   
  
“A forgiving one.” Jazz rolled over to his knees, wading across the nest. He rested his hands on Bluestreak’s knees as he looked up at his much bigger lover. “A real, real forgiving one.”   
  
Bluestreak laughed, but he let Jazz kiss him, let their bodies almost come together. It was a slow kiss, a savoring one, and Jazz tasted himself on Bluestreak’s tongue. It made the arousal pooling within him, surge to new heights. He moaned and rolled his hips, the tip of his clava catching on a pillow just right.   
  
“I can make it up to you,” Jazz panted as he thrust forward incrementally, just enough to keep that sweet, sweet sensation.   
  
“You already are.” Bluestreak wrapped his hands around Jazz’s upper arms.   
  
He stood, lifting Jazz from the nest with ridiculous ease. Why was he so damned big? Baras shouldn’t even be this big. It was unseemly. It was intoxicating, and another throb of need rocked through Jazz’s body.   
  
Bluestreak set Jazz on his feet, far enough away Jazz couldn’t get friction of any kind. A lonely drop of fluid leaked from his clava, spattering on the woven floor. His knees wobbled.   
  
“Enough of that,” Bluestreak said as he let Jazz go. “One week. No orgasms. Can you do that or do you need a drink?”   
  
A drink. Their safe phrase.   
  
Jazz gnawed on his bottom lip. It was hardly a challenge. Honestly, a week without an orgasm? It wasn’t really a punishment. He folded his arms and turned up his nose. What did Bluestreak think he was? Some tween harpy without an ounce of self-control?   
  
“Pfft. Who do you think you’re talking to?” Jazz lifted his chin and threw his shoulders back. “For a punishment, it’s not that difficult.”  
  
Bluestreak chuckled. “If you say so.” He looked Jazz up and down before his gaze lingered on Jazz’s groin. “Good luck getting that to go down then.”   
  
It wouldn’t be the first time Jazz had to ignore a bit of morning arousal. Though normally he just got it out of the way with a quick pillow rut.   
  
“I’m not worried,” Jazz said.   
  
And it wasn’t precisely a lie.   
  
Bluestreak snorted and pulled Jazz close for a brief kiss that seriously tested the limits of Jazz’s self-control. He nuzzled Jazz, murmured a promise to see him later tonight, and then he swept out of their nest. He was on Gathering duty this morning, and Jazz didn’t envy him that responsibility. Rumor had it Rodimus was on the crew as well.   
  
Jazz distracted himself by tidying up their nest, indulging in a quick wipedown, and devouring half a bowl of fruit for breakfast. He ignored his arousal, and eventually his clava tucked itself away.   
  
A week? He could do it without a problem. He’d gone months without taking someone to nest before. Seven days were a blink of an eye.   
  
Bluestreak obviously had no idea what kind of challenge he’d just laid.   
  
Hah.   
  
That night, however, Jazz was forced to reevaluate the ease at which he could weather this quote-unquote punishment. He’d imagined the command not to orgasm meant Bluestreak wouldn’t touch him at all for the next week. He’d assumed it meant that aside from the occasional kiss and hug, anything sexual would be off the menu.   
  
He was so very wrong.   
  
Because later that evening, with the both of them freshly bathed and Bluestreak tasting like the sweet cherries they’d eaten for dessert, Bluestreak pulled Jazz into his lap as though it were any other night. He kissed and kissed and kissed until he pinned Jazz beneath him, hips rutting against the inside of Jazz’s thigh, leaving smears of pre-slick behind.   
  
He made those noises Jazz loved so much, urgent little moans and whimpers. He whispered sweet promises and compliments and every once in a while, the tip of his clava would rub Jazz’s nub and send a shock of heat through his groin.   
  
Bluestreak kissed Jazz like he was hungry for him, like he hadn’t tasted Jazz in days and was finally sating a craving. Jazz rose up to meet the push and dance of Bluestreak’s body, because he couldn’t not want Bluestreak no matter what else. So what if Bluestreak wanted to make a point?   
  
This push-pull, this was part of the dance, part of the game. Besides, the sight of Bluestreak gripped by pleasure, moaning as he came and spilled all over Jazz, while Jazz was left shaking with his own arousal, was a sight to behold. If anything, all it did was solidify the sense of ownership Bluestreak had over him.   
  
Bluestreak kissed him, soft and sweet, and then tucked them into the nest, curling around Jazz as he always did, trapping Jazz in a warm embrace. Jazz swallowed down his protests, his whines about the arousal thundering through his veins.   
  
It was only six more days. So what if Bluestreak intended to make it a challenge. He would meet it as he did all things – head on.   
  


~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr for means of getting to read these chapters early. ;) You can find me @dracoqueen22, where you can always find me.


	3. Day Two

Jazz woke before Bluestreak on the second day, aching. The featherdown between his thighs was dry and sticky from lingering slick. Bluestreak breathed into the back of his neck, his warm exhales both tickling and arousing.   
  
Jazz tried to extract himself before he could convince himself to linger in Bluestreak’s embrace. If he was caught, he just knew Bluestreak would torment him with pleasure he couldn’t have.   
  
And he was right.   
  
Before he could squirm free, Bluestreak wrapped an arm around him, hand plunging between his thighs. The heel of Bluestreak’s hand scrubbed over his antrum, teasing his nub. Jazz shuddered and moaned, melting into Bluestreak’s arms, head tossed back and throat bared.   
  
Teeth skated over his featherdown. Bluestreak licked his claiming mark, tonguing the small divots of bit flesh. The flat planes of his fingers found the slick welling up in Jazz’s antrum, and liberally coated his nub with it. His palm slid over Jazz’s clit, again and again, in small circles his hips were eager to follow.   
  
He would never admit to the whimper in his throat. Or the way he clutched Bluestreak’s arms, talons digging in, sharp pants hissing through his teeth. He wanted to come. He wanted to let that boiling pleasure bubble over until he shook in Bluestreak’s arms and rode the wild waves of ecstasy.   
  
He gasped and arched. He gnawed his bottom lip until it was raw. His core skittered a few extra beats.   
  
And then Bluestreak’s hand was gone and Jazz was left humping nothing, his groin aching and his body on fire, two beats away from that perfect crescendo. He whined, tried to roll over into the pillows, grind his throbbing nub on something, anything, but Bluestreak snatched him back, his arms trapping Jazz’s against his sides, his body against Bluestreak’s chest.   
  
“No, flitterling,” he growled, and the command in his tone was enough to make Jazz clench and teeter on the edge of begging. “You’re not allowed to come, remember?”   
  
“This isn’t fair!” Jazz blurted out before he could stop himself, his hips twisting in vain. “You didn’t say you were going to build me to the edge and then stop. It’s not the same thing.”   
  
Bluestreak chuckled, low and menacing and every inch his carrier’s fledge. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do it either. You’re the one who told me it didn’t count as punishment, right?”   
  
Jazz growled a noise of frustration. “This is cruel and unusual punishment,” he said. He cursed himself for his foolishness.   
  
Bluestreak pressed a kiss behind his ear and let him go. Though he didn’t immediately move, as if waiting to see if Jazz would try and seek out his own release.   
  
“It’s a penalty to fit the crime,” Bluestreak said. His palm swept down Jazz’s side, briefly patting him on the rump. “It’s just a week, flitterling. Surely you can manage.”   
  
“Of course I can,” Jazz sniffed, flicking his tail at Bluestreak, or at least the thicker third of it. His tail was a bit too long to twitch the whole thing. “It’s the principle of it.”   
  
Bluestreak chuckled and climbed out of the nest, leaving Jazz to stew in his arousal. “You sound like you’ve been spending too much time with Carrier.”   
  
“Please don’t talk about your parents right now.” Jazz grimaced.   
  
Bluestreak only laughed harder and gave himself a quick wipe with a damp towel. “I’ll bring you back breakfast,” he said as he winked. “And I’m trusting you not to disobey while I’m gone.”   
  
Jazz might have retorted with an impolite gesture he’d learned from Blurr.   
  
Stubbornness was all that kept Jazz from reaching for a pillow. He sat up, crossed his legs, clutched his knees, and focused on the meditation exercises he’d been taught. He was the master of his body. He could control himself.   
  
It was a mantra easily chanted, but not so easily obeyed.   
  
Because holding back was easy when Bluestreak wanted a quick hug or a kiss. Not so much when Bluestreak came to him that night, delectable and eager, whispering sweet nothings and asking if his beautiful flitterling would put his mouth to use.   
  
There were few things Jazz enjoyed more than watching Bluestreak come undone because of him. He loved the way Bluestreak tasted. Loved the sweet of his slick, the tangier bite of his spill. Loved how Bluestreak let go and gave himself to pleasure when Jazz put his mouth all over his master’s tender bits.   
  
Jazz adored oral, and Bluestreak knew it. He especially adored being ordered to perform, the heavy weight of Bluestreak’s hand on his head, guiding him, encouraging him, subtle command in each press of his fingers.   
  
He put his all into it. He licked and sucked and nibbled and caressed. He thought if he could please Bluestreak, his lover would forget all about that pesky punishment. He’d be so enraptured, so warm and happy from pleasure, Jazz would be forgiven in an instant.   
  
So he licked Bluestreak until he was dripping and soppy and swollen with want. He sucked Bluestreak’s clava, tongue prodding at the slit, until it dribbled so much tangy pre-spill Jazz could slurp it up with a curl of his tongue. His face was smeared with fluids, the scent of Bluestreak surrounding him, and when Bluestreak finally came, it was down Jazz’s throat, hot and heavy spurts of his spill that painted Jazz’s tongue.   
  
The scent of Bluestreak’s pleasure was dizzying. Jazz was hard and aching for it, his hips making unconscious grinds into the pillow beneath him, his thighs wet with his own slick. He wanted so badly for Bluestreak to grab him, to give him permission, to let him ease the ache in his groin. He’d surged so fast to the plateau, as if the past two days of denied orgasm had left him primed and ready.   
  
He climbed up Bluestreak’s body and buried his lover’s face in kisses. He shared the taste of Bluestreak’s pleasure with him, and he rutted the heat of his clava against Bluestreak’s hip. Jazz squirmed with need, made urgent noises in his throat, went weak and pliant when Bluestreak finally grabbed him.   
  
Yes, see how pretty he was? How obedient? Such a good little pet, wasn’t he?  
  
Bluestreak nuzzled him. “Thank you,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss to the corner of Jazz’s neck, near his ear. “That was wonderful.”   
  
And then he rolled and tucked Jazz into the cradle of his body, steadfastly ignoring the rigid clava dripping onto their nest, and the sweet scent of Jazz’s slick between his thighs. He ignored the heat of Jazz’s body, the way his ready-scent rose from him in waves, the way he trembled against Bluestreak.   
  
He ignored it all without a blink, as if not once tempted.   
  
“You are made of stone,” Jazz declared, petulant.   
  
Bluestreak chuckled and rubbed the bottom of his chin over Jazz’s crest. “Go to sleep, flitterling. You’ve five more days.”   
  
Jazz pouted, but it didn’t sway his master at all.   
  


~


	4. Day Three

Jazz had a long night where he alternated between being too warm and too cold, where he kept waking from erotic dreams into a reality where he wasn’t allowed to orgasm for a week. He wasn’t sure which was the nightmare, honestly.   
  
When morning finally arrived, and Jazz peeled his eyes open, it was to the sensation of Bluestreak rocking against his rump, already hard and leaking, though still half-asleep. Jazz stretched and pushed back against his lover, wriggling with invitation. He reached back, grabbed Bluestreak’s rump, pinning their lower halves together.   
  
A little temptation could go a long way.   
  
Bluestreak woke fully and grabbed his thigh, sliding a hand around, lifting his leg. Jazz might have whined as he felt the hard heat of a clava slip between his thighs, rutting across the swollen wet of his antrum. He canted his hips invitingly, and arched his spine as Bluestreak slid into him with slow and shallow thrusts.   
  
“More,” Jazz begged, shameless because what point was there in being ashamed of what he wanted?   
  
Bluestreak hummed against the back of his neck, cradled him closer, rocked their bodies together. He pushed in and in, deeper and deeper, less thrusting and more slow rolls of his hips. He panted, hot and wet, into Jazz’s ear, and whispered sweet promises of how good Jazz felt, how perfect he was, how lucky Bluestreak was to have caught him.   
  
Jazz trembled in his arms, pleasure snapping and coiling inside of him. He felt weak in the wake of that praise, as he always did. His antrum throbbed, and he squeezed on Bluestreak’s clava, his own leaking copiously into the pillows. The whole nest smelled of them, of their coupling, and it made Jazz dizzy.   
  
He inched a hand downward before he could think twice about it. He wouldn’t need much. Just the heel of his palm, just the brush of his fingerpads, the press of a soft pillow against the aching need of him.   
  
A hand caught around his wrist before he got far, Bluestreak dropping his thigh in favor of restraining Jazz.   
  
Jazz whined a complaint.   
  
“I said no.” Bluestreak nipped his ear in warning.   
  
A tremor wracked Jazz’s body. This was totally and completely unfair. “Please, babe. I get it, I’m sorry,” he said, the words spilling out of him in a desperate rush.   
  
It was true. He was aching and hungry, his breathing sharp and erratic, his entire body trembling on the edge. He’d grown accustomed to a certain amount of pleasure from his master, and maybe it was an obsession at this point, but he wanted it.   
  
Bluestreak slipped out of him and rolled over Jazz. He grabbed the other wrist and pinned both to the nest to either side of Jazz’s head. He straddled Jazz’s thighs, pinning his body down, put them nose to nose.   
  
“I know you’re sorry,” he said, and the weight of him was both suffocating and intoxicating. Jazz couldn’t help but moan, tip his head back, bare his throat in entreaty.   
  
“The answer is still no,” Bluestreak said, but he took the offer, running lips and teeth and tongue over Jazz’s throat, licking his claiming mark.   
  
Jazz keened. He hurt. He  _wanted_.   
  
He dug his tarsals into the nest for leverage and managed to buck his hips, his clava dragging along the silken feathers of Bluestreak’s rump in a delicious slide. But Bluestreak scooted forward, taking away the friction, his fingers tightening in warning around Jazz’s wrists.   
  
“Behave,” he warned. The edge of sharp command in his voice made Jazz still on instinct alone.   
  
Jazz swallowed a breath, tried not to move, despite the throbbing in his groin and the weight of Bluestreak on top of him. Bluestreak moved, hips tilting forward, the head of his clava rubbing over Jazz’s chest, his antrum dripping where it hovered above Jazz’s belly. The scent of his arousal flooded Jazz’s nose, made him dizzy.   
  
For a moment, Jazz contemplated begging. He weighed his pride against the glorious taste of release. He rose to meet Bluestreak’s slow and steady rocks. He greedily soaked up the sounds of Bluestreak’s rapid breathing, the little moans of pleasure, the way Bluestreak squeezed his wrists in time with his thrusts.   
  
Jazz bit his lip until he tasted blood. He ground his teeth as his pride won out. He’d bragged that this punishment meant nothing. He was determined to prove it.   
  
Bluestreak came with a stunted cry, spilling hot and wet over Jazz’s chest and belly. Jazz felt the splatters, watched pleasure streak pretty and pink over Bluestreak’s face, and he yearned to follow it over. He wished Bluestreak had come in his mouth, so Jazz could at least have the taste of him to savor.   
  
Bluestreak kissed him, soft and sweet. He nuzzled the side of Jazz’s face. “Behave, flitterling,” he said as Jazz’s hips rose up, entirely unbidden, his clava bobbing in the air. “I’ll plug you if you don’t.”   
  
Jazz worked his throat. “Promises, promises,” he said, voice raspy, a thrill running down his spine at the thought of the plug. It was not comfortable. It was tantamount to torture.   
  
It was punishment by every definition of the word. It was ownership. Jazz loved it as much as he hated it.   
  
“Four more days, flitterling,” Bluestreak said.   
  
“I can take it,” Jazz replied with a smirk. He doubted it was at all convincing, what with the way his whole body shook from the need to come.   
  
“I know you can.”   
  
Bluestreak let him go, and Jazz pulled himself out of the nest with more dignity than he currently possessed. He prepared for the day as if he wasn’t soaking his thighs with slick, and his clava stubbornly resisted returning to its sheath.   
  
Bluestreak left before him, while Jazz had to rely on meditation and splashing himself with cold water from the washbasin until he was decent for the public. He glared down at his traitorous organ, which was starting to care less about his pride and more about the serious case of “blue balls” he was suffering.   
  
He could always take the out.   
  
Or.   
  
Or what Bluestreak didn’t know couldn’t come back to bite Jazz on the rump. He’d just have to get home before his partner and clean up the evidence.   
  
Jazz had been given more difficult assignments. Surely he was capable of a little subterfuge when it came to something this simple.   
  
Surely.   
  
Jazz strutted out of their nest with more pep in his step than he’d managed the past two days. He breezed through his duties, though he didn’t fail to notice Starscream watching him with amused, intent looks. Knowing Bluestreak, he’d probably babbled everything to his carrier because that entire family apparently had no boundaries.   
  
Jazz might have rushed through his duties, simple as they were. He liked the laidback atmosphere of Kaon, how his contributions were valued but not the measure of his worth. He liked knowing he could take a day off, and no one would die, and it wouldn’t be his fault.   
  
He missed Iacon sometimes. Occasionally. When he found himself craving something he could only get back home, or life in Kaon moved a bit too slow for his liking. But Iacon didn’t have Bluestreak.   
  
Iacon wasn’t home anymore.   
  
Jazz rushed back to the nest he shared with Bluestreak, high in the topmost tier, just below the branch-woven ceiling. Mid-afternoon and all was peaceful and quiet. Bluestreak should be at sparring practice for the next hour.   
  
Jazz’s body tingled with anticipation. His groin throbbed, and he didn’t so much sink into their nestbed as he dove into the pillows and blankets, still musky with the scent of their previous coupling. They really needed to launder.   
  
But first.   
  
Jazz wriggled about, already aroused, his clava extending quickly, eagerly. Pre-slick dribbled freely, staining the pillow beneath his hips. Jazz fished around in the nest before he found his favorite pillow, a densely packed orange monstrosity with a burlap covering.   
  
Jazz loved the harsh friction of it, the slide of each ridge over his nub, the way it caught the sensitive folds of his antrum. He rolled onto his knees, shoved it between his thighs, the overstuffed, raised center of it providing the perfect platform for a most delicious grind. He shuddered all down his spine as he rolled his antrum across it, nub catching on the rough weave and sending a shock of heat through his groin.   
  
Oh.  _Perfect_.   
  
Jazz tilted forward, fisting at the nest, thighs clamping the pillow, the tip of his clava catching on another and providing more delicious friction. He rocked and rolled, setting up a good rhythm, pleasure knotting and coiling inside of him. He was already on the edge, and as much as he wanted to savor, he was desperate to reach the plateau he’d been denied this week.   
  
He groaned and panted, eyes squeezed shut, talons kneading the plush lining of the nest, his hips grinding hard against the burlap pillow, leaving smears of slick behind. The nest reeked of his arousal, and he could smell Bluestreak in the nestbed. Jazz groaned, wishing he didn’t have to resort to a pillow, wishing Bluestreak were here to rut against, his big, broad body so firm and pliant beneath him. His hands holding Jazz in place. His voice whispering dirty, filthy, commanding things.   
  
“What in Adaptus’ name do you think you are doing?”   
  
Jazz froze. Ice water figuratively dumped on his head. He peeled open his eyes and dared lift his gaze to the doorway, already knowing what he’d find.   
  
Bluestreak stood there, in the nest, the cloth doorway shut behind him, his face a mask of disappointment.   
  
Jazz’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t find an excuse. He couldn’t even find it in him to come up with a decent lie.   
  
“Napping?” he tried, and attempted an innocent smile, but it was lopsided and insincere. “You’re home early.”   
  
“So are you,” Bluestreak said with narrowed eyes. He strode toward the nest, and Jazz would never admit in a thousand years to the way he scrambled away from the evidence of his misbehavior, like a novice.   
  
The orange pillow, stained with his slick, glinted accusingly at him.   
  
Bluestreak dropped down into the nest next to the pillow. He eyed it and gave Jazz a look with one raised eyebrow.   
  
“Napping,” he repeated, and picked up the pillow, giving it a pointed sniff. His tongue slipped free, and he tasted the wet slick. “This is still damp.”   
  
Jazz whimpered, because that was about the hottest thing he’d ever seen, and he didn’t touch himself only because he was sitting on his hands.   
  
The pillow fell back into the nest.   
  
Bluestreak sat down, back against the lip of the nest bed, legs spread and all he did was point between them. It was a wordless command, and Jazz scrambled to obey, lust overriding both reason and pride. Maybe he’d convinced Bluestreak to give up this ridiculous idea of punishment.   
  
The moment he was within reach, Bluestreak grabbed him, fingers clamped on Jazz’s jaw, a shade too firm. Lust skyrocketed, and Jazz whimpered again.   
  
“You are a naughty, naughty flitterling,” Bluestreak said, his tone low and deep and commanding. Jazz was going to make an utter fool of himself, he just knew it. “I’m going to have to plug you. Just can’t trust you not to touch yourself or be sneaky. This is punishment, Jazz. Remember?”   
  
His throat bobbed over a heavy swallow. “I wasn’t going to actually come,” Jazz lied through his teeth. “I was just, uh, preparing myself. For you.”   
  
“Liar,” Bluestreak said, and there was a hint of amusement at the corners of his lips. He pulled Jazz’s mouth to his, the kiss so soft and sweet, incongruous to the grip he had on Jazz’s chin. “What am I going to do with you?”   
  
“Rut with me and let me come,” Jazz chirped hopefully.   
  
“Mmm. No. I don’t think so.” Bluestreak chuckled and tipped Jazz’s chin up, at an almost painful angle, his lips and teeth finding Jazz’s throat, biting down.   
  
Jazz keened. He clawed at Bluestreak’s chest, arousal throbbing through his veins, his clava dribbling and dripping down on Bluestreak.   
  
“I want your mouth,” Bluestreak said, and there’s no way his tone was a suggestion. It’s a command, and it resonated inside Jazz, made him submit in ways few things could.   
  
“I want you to swallow me,” Bluestreak said, and Jazz sagged, panting, licking his lips, already feeling the weight of Bluestreak’s clava on his tongue.   
  
“And then I’m going to plug you,” Bluestreak growled against Jazz’s throat, his teeth a sharp nip immediately followed by the bitter tang of blood.   
  
Jazz almost came there on the spot. Sheer force of will kept the arousal from thundering out in an arc of spill.   
  
“Do you understand?” Bluestreak demanded.   
  
“Yes, sir,” Jazz moaned.   
  
He felt Bluestreak’s approval against his throat. He scrambled to swallow Bluestreak as soon as the grip on his chin was released. He took Bluestreak into his mouth, tasting the head of him, lapping up the trickles of pre-slick. He wasted no time in taking Bluestreak to the hilt, down into his throat, swallowing around him.   
  
Bluestreak moaned and carded his fingers through Jazz’s feathers, hips gently rocking upward. The anger in his body language softened with the pleasure, and Jazz hummed with relief, swallowing again and again. He never felt so taken as he did with Bluestreak down his throat, hands gripping his head, demanding pleasure and receiving it.   
  
Bluestreak spilled into his mouth, and Jazz greedily drank him down. He might not be allowed an orgasm, but he could have this, and for the rest of the week, it would have to be enough. He suckled Bluestreak gently, extending the pleasure, and when he was done, he crawled up Bluestreak’s body and kissed him, oh so sweet, sharing the taste with his master.   
  
Bluestreak hummed into the kiss, swept his hands up and down Jazz’s back. “You’re still getting plugged,” he said.   
  
“I know,” Jazz sighed. He grasped for his usual swagger, but it was hidden behind a trembling, aching need in his groin.   
  
Bluestreak patted him on the rump. “Stay,” he said, and climbed out of the berth, leaving Jazz flopped in the cocoon of rut-stained pillows.   
  
He didn’t dare reach for the orange burlap. Instead, his eyes tracked Bluestreak around the room, as he crouched to dig in the small chest they had tucked under the washbasin nook. The chest had been a parting gift from Nightshade, wishing him a happy life at his new flock.   
  
Bluestreak returned, the plug looking small and insignificant in his hands. Nonetheless, need tightened and yawed inside of Jazz. He curved his hands around his thighs, pulling his legs up and baring his antrum without Bluestreak needing to say a word.  
  
The plug was hand-carved and sanded and oiled until it shone. It felt as smooth as a river rock or the pretty glass of a test tube beaker. Three spherical knobs, each larger than the one before it bubbled up along the length of it, and the end flared, to ensure it wouldn’t get lost within him. It was the same color as Jazz’s featherdown, and no one would see it unless they knew to look for it.   
  
“Hoping to reduce your sentence with good behavior?” Bluestreak asked as he knelt between Jazz’s thighs, one hand liberally drizzling the plug with a plant-based oil that smelled of aloe and arrowroot.   
  
Jazz licked his lips as the rounded tip of the first knob nudged against his folds. “I always behave,” he said.   
  
Bluestreak snorted, but it was affectionate rather than annoyed. He nudged the plug inward, and Jazz’s breath caught in his throat. It felt so good, so slick, so smooth as it slid into him, cooler than flesh but grinding over sensitive spots as it filled him. Jazz was keening by the time the third sphere filled him and the flared end notched against his rim.   
  
Bluestreak gave the plug a little twist and wiggle, testing the fit, before he let it go. The nub stayed in place, Jazz’s rim quivering around the flared end.   
  
“There,” Bluestreak said with a lingering brush of his fingerpad to Jazz’s nub. “That stays where it is. You don’t touch it. And if you’re good, perhaps I can be convinced to remove it.”   
  
Jazz swallowed thickly. “Yes, sir.” He let go of his thighs, straightened out his legs, felt the plug shift inside of him, and his groin simmered with heat.   
  
Bluestreak smiled and nuzzled him. “Four more days,” he said, and pulled Jazz into his arms, idly stroking his back.   
  
Four more days.   
  
He could do this.   
  


~


	5. Day Four

The plug was torture of the most erotic kind. It shifted with every move Jazz made, nudging over every sensitive spot within him. It stole his breath, made him gasp mid-stride, and it kept him on the simmering edge of need with every passing moment.   
  
He stayed seated if he could, to avoid the stirring sensations, and didn’t let anyone get too close so they couldn’t see the flush in his cheeks, or smell the arousal on him. Most didn’t notice. A few weren’t fooled.   
  
He could have lived without knowingly Whirl cackling at him.   
  
His day dragged on and on, and Jazz would have cheered when it was time for dinner and to go back to his nest and his lover, if he’d had the energy. But the plug kept him on edge, he was jittery and hungry for something more than food, and as much as he wanted to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness, his pride won out.   
  
Sooner or later, he intended to dropkick his damned pride into the nearest ocean.   
  
Ratchet caught him squirming and gave him the longest, most despairing look Jazz had ever seen from a healer. “Do I even want to know?” he asked.   
  
“Probably not,” Jazz said with his best, most sparkling grin. Ratchet, unlike his two mates, wasn’t particularly interested in the sexual exploits of his children. He had a bit more shame than his mates.   
  
Ratchet made a face that nearly crossed the line into disgust. “Are you injured?” he asked, tone flat. In the question was the implication “do I need to have another conversation with my child about understanding the limits of his sub?”   
  
Jazz shook his head and backed away slowly, hoping Ratchet wouldn’t look down his body, because unlike everyone else, Ratchet knew a plug when he saw one.   
  
“Not in a manner that needs a healer,” Jazz chirped.   
  
Ratchet hid his face behind his palm. “Please. Just go,” he said.   
  
Jazz went.   
  
He kept to the shadows and the ceilings, skittering in amongst the woven branches as best he could. There were times he’d despaired of his size, which was tiny even for a smol, and with the most unhelpful, long tail. Add to that his visual sensitivity to light, and Jazz wondered what use he could ever be for his flock.   
  
That was when Nightshade discovered him, playing hide and seek with other fledges his age. He’d been the one to suggest Jazz use his size to his advantage, and he’d invited Jazz to the subvertive agent program.   
  
Life changed for Jazz after that. Arguably better, occasionally worse, depending on one’s point of view.   
  
He’d sworn off romance while he worked for Nightshade. He was rarely home, he was always in danger, and he didn’t want to worry about attachment. He had friends, playthings, other baras and smols who were happy to have him for a night. He thought that was enough.   
  
Until Bluestreak swept into his life.   
  
Nothing had been the same since.   
  
Jazz wouldn’t change a thing either. He was living his best life with Bluestreak. He couldn’t be happier.   
  
Well.   
  
Maybe a little bit.   
  
Because that night, Bluestreak spilled into Jazz’s mouth, licked him clean, then pulled him close to sleep. He wrapped his arms around Jazz, thick feathers a warm cocoon, and tucked Jazz under his chin.   
  
“Good night, flitterling,” he murmured.   
  
There was no sign of forgiveness. No sigh of him reaching for Jazz’s plug and granting him relief.   
  
Jazz squirmed. He was hard and aching, his clava tip rubbing against Bluestreak’s thigh. His antrum seeped, muscles fluttering around the plug while his slick stained his featherdown. He could smell his own arousal and taste Bluestreak on his tongue.   
  
He loved Bluestreak, but this was a special kind of torture.   
  
“... Blue?” he ventured, on the cusp of begging, but not quite there. He had his pride, damn it. He was a warrior, a fighter, a fearsome spy. He would not be defeated by a little piece of polished wood.   
  
“Hmm?”   
  
“Am I forgiven?” At least for the plug. Dear Adaptus, at least could he be free of the taunt of the plug.   
  
Bluestreak shifted and his thigh rubbed Jazz’s clava, sending a buzz of pleasure down his spine. He gasped, clutching at his younger mate, his hips rocking against Blue’s thigh. The plug shifted and nudged, sending another wave of want through Jazz’s groin.   
  
“No,” Bluestreak said, his tone firm and unyielding. “You still lack self-control.”   
  
Jazz whimpered. He ached. He wanted to beg. Just one release?   
  
He gnawed on his bottom lip.   
  
“Yes, sir.” His voice came out too small. Defeated. It simultaneously exhausted him and made him salivate.   
  
By Adaptus, but Bluestreak’s mastery of him was so total, so enveloping, it was intoxicating. How did he do it?   
  
“You can wait, can’t you?” Bluestreak rubbed him again, the tease. “It’s only a couple more days. Surely a grown bird like you can control himself. Yes?”   
  
Damn him.  
  
“Yes, sir. I can.” Jazz forced himself to be still, though all he wanted to do was rock against his bara mate and seek completion.   
  
“Or do you need a drink?”   
  
Another out was offered. Another opportunity to cease his punishment, if it was too much for him to handle. A chance to call an end to their little game if Jazz was no longer having any fun. Unfortunately, that was the problem.   
  
This didn’t hurt. It was merely infuriatingly frustrating, and he wanted to find release, but he also wanted to prove he didn’t need one.   
  
“I’m fine,” Jazz lied instead.   
  
“I’m proud of you.” Bluestreak kissed the top of his head, nuzzling against his crest. Joy bloomed within Jazz’s core at the compliment, only to shrink when Bluestreak followed it up with a warning, “I’d better not catch you pillow-riding again though.”   
  
“Yes, sir,” Jazz sighed the sigh of the defeated. He had no doubt Bluestreak would be watching him too closely from now on.   
  
“Good night, Master.”   
  
“Rest well, my flitterling,” Bluestreak replied, his tone warm and affectionate and dripping with ownership.   
  
Jazz purred.   
  
He tried not to squirm. He wanted to come so badly he could taste that sweet release.   
But denial was his punishment and by Adaptus was it effective. It was only a couple more days. He could do this.   
  
Jazz was having too much fun to ruin it now.   
  


~


	6. Day Five

Morning arrived and Jazz tried to focus on their usual routine, even if Bluestreak left out the part where they usually began the day with an orgasm or two. Jazz was left to be content with a few chaste kisses and hugs, light conversation shared over their bowl of breakfast fruit, while he squirmed and tried to ignore the press of the plug in his antrum.   
  
He went to sleep slick, he woke slick. The feathers between his thighs were tacky with slick. He’d need an actual soak before the day was through, rather than a cursory wipedown with the washbasin. His clava was a dull throb, barely hidden within its sheath. Their nest was a mess that reeked of arousal. He should probably think about laundering it as well.   
  
Bluestreak was smiling and perky, chattering on about the training he would be doing with Drift today. He was adorable, and Jazz wanted him with every beat of his core. The plug, however, was an arousing reminder of his punishment.   
  
He braced himself for another day pretending he wasn’t on the edge of release, when Bluestreak pulled him into his lap and kissed him soundly.   
  
“I think you’ve been well-behaved,” he murmured with a stroke down Jazz’s back, his lips painting kisses over Jazz’s forehead and the rise of his cheeks.   
  
“Can I come?” Jazz asked, hopeful, his insides twisting into knots of want.   
  
Bluestreak chuckled. “No.” His palm slid between their bodies, fingers stroking over the flared end of the plug, making a lewd sound as he fiddled with it. “But I’m convinced I can remove this now. Though I’ll keep it on hand in case you feel the need to… misbehave again.”   
  
“I won’t,” Jazz said, in a rush.   
  
“I believe you.” Bluestreak hummed and kissed him again, tasting like orange marmalade and pears, his tongue soft and exploring.   
  
Jazz moaned into the kiss, his hips rolling against Bluestreak’s fingers, his clava threatening to emerge. His antrum rippled around the plug, and his moan gained pitch as he felt it slide from within him, each sphere catching on the walls of his antrum and sending waves of heat through his body.   
  
It was a torment. It was a tease. It was a relief to finally have the plug free, but it left Jazz feeling empty and aching.   
  
“Not much longer now, flitterling,” Bluestreak promised with a lingering kiss and an embrace. “I trust you’ll behave.”   
  
“Course I will,” Jazz replied with a grin and a wink and more bravado than he actually felt. He swallowed down the need, pretended his knees didn’t shake with the urge to come, and that his groin wasn’t a throbbing wave of hungry heat.   
  
They went their respective ways to their separate duties, and Jazz found somewhere to hide and growl his frustration. He went to the training room when he knew no one else would be there and demolished three practice dummies. He took a long soak in the hot springs because he stank of arousal, and while it helped, it did nothing to quell the need.   
  
He watched Blurr and Starscream kiss from across the room and a wave of thick-green jealousy slid poisonous into his veins.   
  
Drift and Perceptor were canoodling in the hot springs, making eyes at anyone who looked like they sought an adventurous experience, and all it did was remind Jazz of the conversation he and Bluestreak once had. A tentative discussion, if you would, regarding possibly engaging in a quartet.   
  
Jazz walked past Liege Megatron’s nest just in time to catch the sound of someone having a very good afternoon and honestly! The middle of the day? Didn’t Megatron have duties to attend? Surely he could keep his hands off his mate?   
  
He went to visit Soundwave to drop off a report, and walked in on the Speaker with a bright yellow twin in his lap, and a bright red one draped across his back. Jazz scowled and promptly walked right back out.   
  
It wasn’t even mating season. Had the whole flock conspired to remind Jazz of the pleasure he wasn’t allowed to have?   
  
“Where’s your brother?” Jazz demanded as he stalked into the clinic and cornered First Aid behind the counter.   
  
First Aid blinked at him, eyebrows raised, gaze flicking between Jazz and his carrier, who Jazz probably should have noticed, too. “Which one?”   
  
“Which one do you think?” Jazz asked. His tail twitched, and he quickly flicked it up and over an arm before someone stepped on it.   
  
Again.   
  
Ratchet snorted. “Bluestreak is in weapons storage. He’s on maintenance duty today.” He eyed Jazz, and his eyebrows tried to climb into his feather crest. “I’d ask what you two are getting up to now, but I honestly don’t want to know.” He spun on a tarsal and stalked away, and Jazz could have sworn he muttered,   
  
“All of my children are deviants.”   
  
Jazz would have laughed, if he wasn’t so out of his mind aroused at the moment.   
  
“Carrier’s right,” First Aid said as he bent over a leatherbound book of some kind. “Blue’s in weapons storage. And I believe he’s alone.” He looked up with an exaggerated wink.   
  
Their entire family was odd. But that’s what happened when one-third of the unusual threesome used to be human, one-third was a smol who couldn’t decide if he were bara or not, and the other third was a former Liege who couldn’t quite manage to shake the idea people should defer to him.   
  
“Thanks,” Jazz said, and made himself scarce because Ratchet might not have been interested in what Blue and Jazz were up to, but First Aid had no such compunctions about little things like boundaries. He’d ask, and he’d want details.   
  
Jazz indeed found Bluestreak in the weapons locker, and relief sagged his shoulders when he found his lover alone. The heavy drape of the door fell behind him, and Bluestreak looked up from where he was sharpening a short sword.   
  
“Hey, flitterling.” Bluestreak smiled. “Here to check out a weapon or two?”   
  
Jazz flitted around to Bluestreak’s side of the table, eyes hungrily devouring the shape of his master. Beautiful grey-blue feathers, bright blue eyes, broad shoulders, sturdy tail, big hands. Just the sight of him made need yaw in his belly.   
  
He took the short sword from Bluestreak and set it on the table. He grabbed Bluestreak’s hand and tugged him toward the narrow hall leading to the actual storage room of shelves and brackets and disassembled weapons.   
  
Behind him, Bluestreak chuckled. “Oh, I see. Not that kind of weapon.”   
  
Jazz stayed quiet, lest the pleas spill out of his mouth first. He cornered Bluestreak into the storage room, guided him back against the shelves, and then he knelt, nuzzling Bluestreak’s groin and purring.   
  
Fingers carded through his feathers as Bluestreak rumbled his approval. “This is a nice surprise,” he said as his clava emerged, and Jazz greeted it with a quick lick.   
  
Jazz hummed and sucked Bluestreak into his mouth. He wanted to take it slow and careful, wanted to linger and savor, but Bluestreak was on the clock and anyone could come back here looking for whoever was on duty. He had to make this quick.   
  
Luckily, Jazz knew more than a few tricks.   
  
Bluestreak spilled into his mouth in a matter of minutes, bitten off whimpers hidden behind a knuckle clenched between his teeth, and his other hand clamped on Jazz’s shoulder, talons digging tight. Jazz suckled him gently, getting every last drop, and then he let Bluestreak slip free of his mouth. He nuzzled Bluestreak’s groin, purred in his throat, his hands curled around Bluestreak’s knee.   
  
He pressed his cheek to Bluestreak’s hip, and he looked up at his lover, tongue wetting his lips, eyes a perfectly seductive gleam in the firelight.   
  
“Will you forgive me?” he asked, because the taste of Bluestreak lingered on his tongue, and his belly tightened with want, and he was so slick between his thighs, he’d probably dripped on the floor.   
  
Bluestreak slid down the wall, his hands cupping Jazz’s face. He leaned in for a soft and sweet kiss, and a ripple of relief flooded Jazz’s veins. Yes, he was sure of it. This was forgiveness. Bluestreak would cease this ridiculous notion of denying Jazz pleasure. He’d earned it.   
  
Bluestreak gifted a kiss to each of the corners of Jazz’s mouth. He pressed their foreheads together.   
  
“No,” he said, and stood up, tugging Jazz along with him. “Nice try, flitterling. But your punishment stands. It’s only two more days.” He slipped a hand between Jazz’s thighs, palm cupping the swollen heat of him, tasting the slick with the pads of his fingertips. “No matter how sweet you are, how ready for me, how much I want you, I have to be firm else you’ll never behave. Understand?”   
  
The heel of his palm ground against Jazz’s nub. He keened, knees wobbling, and tipped forward, slumping against Bluestreak’s body. He clung to Bluestreak’s sides, hips rocking, grinding along the slick-damp palm.   
  
“Please,” he said, near-sobbing, because it felt so damned good, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. His antrum throbbed, his clava filled so fast it hurt. “I’ll be good. I’ll be so, so good.”   
  
“I know you will.” Bluestreak pressed a kiss to the top of his head, palm applying a steady pressure, as the need tightened and coiled deep within him.   
  
Jazz whined. He pressed his face to Bluestreak’s chest and inhaled the scent of his lover, that mix of hot springs and warm sun and sweet things. He clutched at Bluestreak’s sides, and tried not to thrust against Bluestreak’s thigh, his clava rigid and leaking, his knees pressing inward to quell the throb of his antrum.   
  
“One more day,” Bluestreak murmured as he crushed Jazz against him, and the strength of his embrace felt like a promise.   
  
~


	7. Day Six

The next day, Jazz couldn’t leave their nest. He didn’t dare.  
  
He was so wet, he left a puddle anywhere he sat. His clava would not restrain itself to his sheath. He couldn’t smile because of the need pounding through his veins. He couldn’t do anything but think about rut. The smell of it. The heat of it. The taste. The touch. The  _feel_.   
  
Jazz whimpered as his antrum throbbed, his clit-nub engorged and visible. He could smell himself. He pulled his hands into fists to keep from grabbing a pillow. The sharp sting grounded him in the present, and far from his daydreams.   
  
His arousal would fade, and he’d manage to crawl out of the nest for a drink or a bite of fruit, or to sit listless on the balcony edge. But then he’d remember Bluestreak, or a particular scene, or the way pleasure was supposed to feel, and he’d be desperate for it all over again.   
  
It was maddening. It was torture. It was the most brilliant punishment Bluestreak could have ever devised, and Jazz no longer thought of himself as clever for pushing his lover into it. No, he was quite the idiot in fact.   
  
By the time Bluestreak came home, Jazz couldn’t manage anything more coherent than a sobbed plea. He was on his knees, talons kneading the reed-woven floor, head bowed in submission. His thoughts crackled back and forth among Bluestreak and lover and Master, and he couldn’t settle on a single identifier.   
  
“Shhh,” Bluestreak soothed with lovely purrs. “I’ve got you, flitterling. You’ve done so well. I’m so proud of you.”   
  
Jazz clung to him, breathing in his heat, his scent. He adored how big Bluestreak was, one of the larger baras in Kaon flock, so big he could wrap Jazz up easily.   
  
“Can I… Can I…?” He could barely get the request out through how badly he shook.  
  
“Lay back into the pillows now,” Bluestreak ordered, ignoring his request to guide him into their bed. “Come on, flitterling. Hands to the side.”   
  
Jazz obeyed. He trembled to the tips of his feathers, his breathing coming in sharper gasps. He was so hot, so hard. He ached. Pre-fluid streamed from the tip. He shook from the effort of holding himself back.   
  
Bluestreak hovered over him, his expression one of adoration and approval. “Open up,” he said. “Come on, pretty. Spread those thighs for me. Show me how hungry you are.”   
  
Jazz whimpered. He pushed his legs apart, as far as he could manage, feeling cool air rush over him. It teased his seeping, scorching antrum and wisped over his bobbing clava.   
  
He rocked his hips, desperate for stimulation, but there was none to be found.   
  
Bluestreak’s eyes darkened. “Very hungry indeed,” he purred as he knelt between Jazz’s thighs, knees forcing him to stay wide. “You’ve been a good pet, I can tell. Haven’t you?”   
  
Jazz’s claws twisted into the pillows, rending fabric with ease. “ _Master_.”  
  
“I know.” Bluestreak’s tongue swept over his lips. “Pet, look at me. Look into my eyes.”   
  
He met his Master’s gaze and shivered. He felt captured. Taken.   
  
“You want to come?”   
  
More than anything. “Yes, sir,” Jazz gasped.   
  
“Have you earned it?”   
  
Trick question. Jazz had learned how to answer this by now. Because he was a good pet. He knew how to behave, even if he had made the remarkably stupid decision not to do so.   
  
“If you think I did, sir.”   
  
“Good answer.” Bluestreak smiled, so soft and sweet. He leaned over Jazz, though the only part of him that touched Jazz was his knees against Jazz’s thighs. “Yes, you have.”   
  
Jazz whimpered. The pillow beneath his rump was sticky and wet. He had to be soaking everything. He hurt so much.   
  
“So beautiful,” Bluestreak murmured, leaning close enough Jazz could feel the warmth of his exhalations. “My flitterling. So proud of you. Now I want you to do one more thing for me.”   
  
Jazz licked his lips. “Anything.” His breath caught in his throat, his entire body shuddered, hanging on a precipice. He wasn’t above begging. The words danced on the tip of his glossa.   
  
Forget pride. Throw in the trash. Pride didn’t matter anymore. Just this. Just his master. Just Bluestreak.   
  
Blue eyes held his. “Come for me,” Bluestreak ordered. Firm. Unyielding. “Now.”   
  
Jazz shattered.   
  
His head tossed back, his body exploding with pleasure as his clava spurted and his antrum clenched and rippled. He thrashed beneath Bluestreak, barely managing to keep firm hold of the pillows, which turned to fluff beneath his talons.   
  
He might have screamed or shrieked, he didn’t know. He was aware of sounds pouring from his throat, and they might not have been intelligible. Not with the searing ecstasy pouring through his veins, pounding through his core.   
  
He’d never felt anything like this before. Never.   
  
He climbed and climbed to new heights of blistering rapture, until he crashed back into his body, wrecked and shaken. He panted for breath, trembling so hard he rattled several feathers loose. Something was whimpering, and he realized it was him. He felt a warm brush against his forehead and opened his eyes, having not realized he closed them.   
  
Bluestreak had kissed him.   
  
“Damn, that was hot,” Bluestreak said, his eyes so bright and heated. “You are the sexiest harpy I’ve ever seen, Jazz. By Adaptus, I love you. Do you have any idea what you just looked like? All I wanna do is eat you right now, I swear to Adaptus.”   
  
Oh. Right.   
  
Blue always did get chatty when he was pleased.   
  
Jazz hummed. “I did good?” he asked, words slurring.   
  
His tongue didn’t want to work right, apparently. It kept lolling about inside his mouth. His entire body felt limp. He didn’t have the strength to so much as lift a finger.   
  
“So good.” Bluestreak stole his lips for a deep and satisfying kiss, claiming him in one fell swoop.   
  
He nuzzled Jazz’s face, finally lowering his body against Jazz’s, a heavy blanket of heat that drew a low moan out of Jazz.   
  
“Can you take me, flitterling?” Bluestreak asked, his knee nudging against Jazz’s thoroughly soaked antrum.   
  
He moaned and managed a wriggle, unable to lift his arms. His antrum gave a weak pulse, his clit-nub stirring back to life.   
  
“Always.”  
  
He would never not want his master.   
  
Blinding pleasure rang through him again as Bluestreak slid into him, slow and savoring, the heat of him filling Jazz deep, deep inside. Another release rippled through his antrum in steadily building waves. He whimpered, panting air through clenched teeth, Bluestreak’s voice washing over and through his ears, full of promise and reassurance and praise.   
  
Jazz floated in it. Distantly, he felt the pleasure of it all.   
  
Bluestreak’s lips dotted gentle and loving over his forehead. The warmth off him cradled Jazz, and Bluestreak was love. Bluestreak was safety.   
  
Bluestreak was home.   
  


*


	8. Day Seven

He went to sleep with Bluestreak, still inside him, and woke to Bluestreak slowly and smoothly pumping into him. Jazz was awash with heat, slick soaking his featherdown and rump, his antrum quivering as it gripped Bluestreak’s clava.   
  
“Morning,” Bluestreak murmured, his voice so warm and deep that it dripped into Jazz’s ears like honey.   
  
“An’ it’s a good one.” Jazz arched his back, urging Bluestreak deeper. A tingle gathered at the base of his spine. “You haven’t had your fill yet?”  
  
“Never.”   
  
Bluestreak kissed him, soft and sweet and loving, as much claim as each thrust. Jazz shuddered, his hips rising toward Bluestreak, matching his rhythm. His core throbbed, thick with desire and need.   
  
He moaned, into Bluestreak’s mouth. “Blue, I’m--”  
  
“Hold on.” Bluestreak nuzzled his face, his exhalations so very warm. “I’m almost there. Let’s come together this time, okay? I wanna feel you all around me.”   
  
Jazz shivered again. His entire body flushed with heat. He loved it when Bluestreak talked like that, saying things as though they were a sure bet, so much confidence. It was intoxicating.   
  
“Can’t,” he gasped. He already felt release creeping up on him, a heavy buzz deep in his belly, and a tight coil in his groin.   
  
“A little bit more.” Bluestreak peppered his face with kisses as his thrusts came faster and faster. One hand slid beneath Jazz’s rump, lifting and tilting him for a better angle.   
  
Jazz keened as Bluestreak’s featherdown teased over his throbbing nub. Each faint brush was maddening. His legs quivered.   
  
“Blue!” He tossed his head back.   
  
Lips brushed over his throat, hot and claiming. A tongue swept over his claiming mark, teasing the bite scars. Hot exhalations forced another shiver out of Jazz.   
  
Bluestreak’s rhythm stuttered, less control and more desperate hunt for release.   
  
“Let go, lovely,” he gasped, and his teeth grazed his claim as though he intended to stake it all over again.   
  
Orgasm poured over Jazz like a dip in the hot springs – hot and tingling and oh so good. He moaned as he felt Bluestreak spill into him, as his mate moaned his name and babbled out a litany of praise.   
  
Jazz hummed happily as Bluestreak kissed him again, slow and deep, just like the motion of his hips, determined to extend Jazz’s pleasure.   
  
He had the best mate in the world.   
  
Bluestreak nuzzled him, and they shared the same breathing space. He lingered within Jazz, the press of their bodies warm and sticky and sated.   
  
Jazz nuzzled back. “You,” he said, “are a force to be reckoned with.”   
  
“Thank you.” Bluestreak chuckled. He curled around Jazz, tugging him close without shifting out of him, and started petting whatever he could reach. “And you’ve learned your lesson, I’ll bet.”   
  
“Yeah. Never play games with a bara who was trained by his healer sire.” Jazz arched into the strokes, his frame still aching and limp.   
  
He wasn’t going to be able to move from the nest today. He sincerely hoped Bluestreak didn’t have plans for him.   
  
“Close enough.” Bluestreak tucked Jazz’s head under his chin and hummed low in his throat.   
  
He had a beautiful voice. He didn’t sing often, but Jazz was occasionally treated to private shows. Bluestreak sang while he cleaned, too. It was the most adorable thing.   
  
Then again, everything about his mate was adorable.   
  
“There’s no way I’m going to make it out of this nest today,” Jazz said, and his voice crackled on the end. He distantly remembered screaming his release last night.   
  
There probably wasn’t anyone on this level who hadn’t heard him.   
  
Oh, well. They should be used to that by now.   
  
“Then it’s a good thing I’ve already taken care of all our needs.” Bluestreak’s talons carded through his feathers, occasionally scratching over the skin beneath, and damn, it felt good. “Carrier’s going to bring by some food in a bit. I’ll get you up in the chair later so I can change out the covers. And tonight, I’ll carry you down to the hot springs for a long soak.”   
  
Jazz purred and buried his hands in Bluestreak’s feathers – they were so fluffy in comparison to Jazz’s previous lovers. Got that from his sire, Bluestreak did. Ratchet was pretty fluffy, too. “You are the best mate ever,” Jazz declared.   
  
Bluestreak laughed quietly. “And you are the best submissive I could have ever found.” He nuzzled the top of Jazz’s head. “I love you, flitterling.”   
  
He always said it so easily. So earnestly. Jazz’s core tightened and throbbed every time he heard the words. They were rare in his life until Bluestreak came along.   
  
He didn’t think he’d ever know what it felt like to be loved.   
  
Jazz hid his face against Bluestreak’s chest. “You’re my only,” he murmured in return, just loud enough for Bluestreak to hear, but not for it to carry.   
  
Bluestreak’s embrace tightened around him, an answer without words.   
  


***

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, as always, is very welcome and appreciated.


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